


my heart is yours to fill or burst

by merricats_sugarbowl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Bottom Castiel, First Time, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Top Dean, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:45:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7467405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s one thing to find Dean Winchester attractive, but it’s quite another to develop feelings for him. Castiel can handle being attracted to his neighbour; that can be dealt with, in the privacy of his bedroom when all of the lights are off, or in the shower in the morning before he prepares to face the day. Lust is something that Castiel can handle. But feelings? Feelings are something else entirely.</i>
</p><p>Castiel lives in apartment 3B and keeps to himself, until the Winchesters move next door. Dean Winchester has a face like a dream, but Castiel can't let himself fall for him, because Dean is straight.</p><p>Isn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is yours to fill or burst

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a Dean/Castiel AU. Anybody else love the idea of writer!Cas? No? Just me? Okay then. Title taken from Dashboard Confessional's "Hands Down", for no other reason than it's the song I was listening to when I finished writing this.
> 
> I'm over [here](http://spasmodictricksofradiance.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

The new neighbours move in after midnight.

As usual, Castiel is working late, staring at the screen of his laptop with bleary eyes and trying to work out the glaring plot holes in his latest short story. He’s running on fumes. He’s been up since early this morning, and the ten coffee cups littering his desk are only a fraction of the amount that he’s gone through today. He’s still wearing the pyjamas that he put on last night and he hasn’t bothered to shave. When he’s working on a project, Castiel’s daily routines sometimes tend to fall by the wayside — this time is no different.

It’s because of the short story that he’s awake to hear the shuddering jolt of the ancient elevator out in the hallway, followed by the hushed murmurs of what sounds like two men. Castiel pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and strains his ears to hear more. One of the apartments on his floor belongs to a sweet, older lady who goes to bed at precisely nine o’clock every evening. The other two are vacant, but Castiel saw a “sold” sign appear in the lobby a few days ago; the owners of the voices must be the owners of one of the vacant apartments, too. As he listens, there’s movement in the hallway. He imagines the new neighbours struggling with boxes, laying them out on the carpet while one of them fumbles with the key to their new apartment. After a few minutes, some grunting, and the sound of the boxes being moved, Castiel hears the door to the apartment click shut. Silence envelops him once more, and he turns his attention back to his story, though he does pause to wonder what kind of people move into a new place at two in the morning.

He doesn’t have much time to wonder. A few minutes later, Castiel falls asleep on his keyboard, fingers still clutched loosely around the handle of a half-full cup of stone cold coffee.

When he wakes the next morning, Castiel’s forgotten all about the new neighbours. His choice of sleeping place has screwed him in more ways than one; his neck and back ache every time he moves, and the keys of his laptop have left deep imprints on his cheeks and chin. He’s also typed a rather impressive keyboard smash into his unfinished short story, rather than the edits he’d intended on last night. With a sigh, he gets to work fixing the mess he’s made.

A hot shower, a cup of coffee and a bagel later, Castiel feels slightly less rumpled and unaccomplished. He’s gotten dressed today, in a simple white t-shirt and a pair of loose fitting jeans. Castiel’s wardrobe is nothing special. There’s no one that he’s trying to impress. He doesn’t bother shaving, but he drags a comb through his hair at least, and when he looks in the mirror he doesn’t feel compelled to turn away, which is a good sign.

Less of a good sign is the fact that he’s out of coffee. Knowing that he won’t manage to get through a full day of writing without his caffeine fix, Castiel sighs, shrugs on his coat, and leaves his apartment, bypassing the rickety elevator in favour of the stairs.

It’s not until he reaches the lobby and sees an unfamiliar man standing beside the mail boxes that he finally remembers hearing his neighbours move in last night. He pauses on the bottom step, drawing back just a little so that he can observe without being seen.

The man looks like he’s around Castiel’s age, early to mid twenties. He’s tall, with dark, ash blond hair and a strong jaw edged with stubble. He’s dressed plainly, in a plaid shirt, jeans and a pair of heavy brown boots, but there’s no denying that he’s one of the most attractive men that Castiel has ever seen, lumberjack wardrobe or not. As Castiel watches, he’s trying to unlock one of the mail boxes, but from the way that his brows are furrowed, it seems that he’s not having much luck. Castiel’s not surprised; the building is old, and so are the mail boxes. Half of the locks are rusted with age. There’s a trick to opening them, a trick that took Castiel weeks to master.

After the stranger’s third failed attempt, Castiel takes pity on him and comes forward to help.

“Er, hello,” he says, bringing up a hand in an awkward greeting. The stranger’s head whips around to look at him, those brows furrowing together once more. “You have to jiggle the key when you twist it. Here—” he plucks the key from the stranger’s hand without waiting for permission, glances at the number and then slots it into the keyhole, sticking his tongue out as he jiggles it around. After a moment, there’s a faint clicking noise and the door to the mail box swings open. “There!”

The stranger’s staring at him, looking equal parts confused, grateful, and suspicious. “Thanks,” he says, and Castiel feels the oddest tremor at the sound of his voice. It’s deep and rasping, a voice that’s positively dripping with sex appeal. Castiel swallows.

“Not a problem,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but coming across aspainfully chipper instead. Then, in lieu of anything else to do, he holds out his hand. “Castiel Novak. 3B.”

“Dean Winchester,” the man returns, gripping Castiel’s hand firmly and shaking it. The handshake lasts a little too long — Castiel gets the feeling that this guy is sizing him up, though he can’t fathom why. “3C. Guess we’re neighbours.”

“Guess so,” Castiel says awkwardly. Now that he’s helped Dean and introduced himself, he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do. What he does know, however, is that he has an apartment upstairs that is severely lacking in coffee, and he has to take steps to rectify that. “Ah, I was just on my way out—”

“Right,” Dean says, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve got stuff to do upstairs.” He starts heading for the elevator and Castiel heads for the door, turning back when Dean speaks again. There’s a smirk on his lips. “Nice meeting you, Cas.”

“Castiel,” Castiel corrects him, but the elevator doors are already sliding shut.

* * *

On his way to the market, Castiel finds himself thinking of calloused hands and plaid shirts. He wonders absently if Dean bats for his team, and decides that he probably doesn’t. They met only briefly, but there was something about the way Dean held himself that said he was a ladies man. Castiel can picture him leaning against the edge of a bar, gaze roving over the curvy body of a cocktail waitress or a giggling co-ed.

Still, that doesn’t mean that Castiel can’t do a little harmless fantasising about the hot new neighbour. It’s the ultimate fantasy, after all; the boy next door. On his way home, he starts idly imagining how Dean’s stubble would feel against his cheek, his jaw, his bare chest, and he’s still pondering that thought when he pushes through the revolving doors of the lobby and runs into a man who can only be the other new neighbour — who, while not as attractive as Dean, is definitely up there.

He’s taller, but noticeably younger, with shaggy dark hair and warm brown eyes. Castiel would peg his age at around twenty, twenty-one. If his outfit is anything to go by, he clearly shares Dean’s fondness for plaid. Castiel pauses to take in the sight, the shopping bag with his coffee in it swinging from his hand as he lingers in the doorway. The dark-haired guy is waiting by the elevator, surrounded by boxes. As Castiel heads for the stairs, the elevator doors slide open and Dean himself steps out, sleeves rolled up. He grins when he sees Castiel.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, and Castiel is momentarily confused before realising that Dean is addressing the dark-haired guy and not him. “This is the guy I was telling you about, our neighbour. Cas, this is my brother, Sam.”

“It’s Castiel,” Castiel says, but his words are drowned out by Sam’s enthusiastic greeting.

“Cas, hey, nice to meet you,” Sam says, coming forward and shaking his hand with a grip that’s almost as strong as his brother’s. “Dean said you helped him with the mail box earlier. You know you basically saved his life, right?” He flashes a toothy smile. “He needs his monthly fix of _Busty Asian Beauties_ , can’t get it without a mail box.”

Castiel opens and closes his mouth, not sure how to respond to the comment, but Dean doesn’t seem fazed. He just looks at Sam, seeming almost indifferent.

“Bitch,” he says in that thrilling, raspy voice of his.

“Jerk,” Sam shoots back, but he’s still grinning. He starts to transfer the boxes into the elevator, looking back over his shoulder and sticking a foot in the door when he notices Castiel still standing there. “Uh, going up?”

Castiel normally doesn’t bother with the elevator. He hates the way that it rattles, the judder that it makes as it passes every floor. He’s usually perfectly content to take the stairs. But Sam’s looking at him, expectant, and there’s still the hint of a smile hovering around Dean’s lips, and Castiel finds himself nodding and stepping into the elevator after the brothers. It’s a tight squeeze, especially with all of the boxes, and Castiel finds himself standing so close to Dean that he can smell the toothpaste on his breath and the clean, fresh scent of his cologne. He tries not to inhale too deeply, worried about making the wrong impression.

Sam and Dean continue to bicker good-naturedly as the elevator travels upwards. Castiel tightens his grip on his shopping bag, feeling a little uncomfortable. Sibling camaraderie has always made him feel strange, even though he comes from a big family. A few minutes alone with Sam and Dean is proof enough that they’re best friends as well as brothers — Castiel’s own family are more stiff and formal. He’s not, strictly speaking, in contact with his parents anymore, and his brothers are more like father figures than friends. He’s close to his sister, but he’s never been close to his brothers. He wonders what it would be like to have a relationship with his brothers like Sam and Dean seem to have, but he can’t even begin to imagine it. The idea is just too alien.

At last, the elevator judders to a halt and Castiel steps out, relieved, though he doesn’t get far. The path to his apartment is obstructed by more boxes. He pauses, trying to calculate the best route, and then hears a throaty chuckle from behind him.

“Oh, man, sorry Cas,” Dean says, appearing behind him with a box in his arms. “3B, right?”

“Right.”

“We’ll move them,” Sam promises, already starting to drag boxes out of the way. “It just seemed easier to get everything upstairs before we actually started moving in. Don’t worry, though, this is the last one, and anyway, we’re total pros at this. It’ll just take a sec.”

He and Dean start hauling the boxes into 3C, and Castiel hovers awkwardly for a moment before deciding that he should help. He lets himself into his own apartment just long enough to shed his coat and set the all-important bag of coffee on the floor inside and then returns to the hallway. There, he reaches for the nearest box, which bears a bright red sticker stating that its contents are _FRAGILE_. He hefts it up easily and carries it over to 3C, hesitating only briefly at the threshold before walking inside and following the sound of Sam and Dean’s voices to the kitchen.

The layout of the apartment is identical to his own, though the personal touches are obviously missing. The walls are the same unremarkable shade of cream, the carpets the same pale beige, and the window even looks onto the same busy main street. Some of the furniture is already here, a black leather couch, what looks like a disassembled glass entertainment unit, an end table with jagged silver legs. Castiel guesses that these were the causes of the noises he heard last night — the essentials, moved in before the boxes of knick-knacks and cutlery and flatware. The kitchen is filled with boxes, but Castiel recognises the black floor tiles, the slate grey tiles on the walls, the steel and white cabinets and fixtures. He sets down the box marked _FRAGILE_ with a slight clinking noise, alerting Sam and Dean to his presence.

“Hey, you didn’t have to do that,” Sam says, but Castiel gives a slight shrug.

“I can help,” he says, though he’s not sure why he’s offering. He’s got a full day of writing ahead of him if he wants to meet his deadline, and besides, he’s never made it a point to socialise with his neighbours all that often, let alone help them move in. Call him a sucker for a pretty face. In any case, the offer seems welcome — both Sam and Dean immediately look grateful, and somehow Castiel knows that he’s not going to get any writing done today.

Together, the three of them haul the rest of the boxes from the hallway into apartment 3C, and then comes the task of figuring out where everything belongs. It takes about an hour, but at last, all of the boxes are where they’re supposed to be — all that’s left to do is actually unpack them. Castiel isn’t sure if he’s supposed to stay for this part, but no one suggests that he leave, and when he reaches hesitantly for the packing knife that Sam’s using to slice open the boxes, no one stops him.

There’s something strangely intimate about helping someone unpack, Castiel thinks. If he opens the wrong box, he might stumble upon underwear, or medication, or, God forbid, porn — Sam said that Dean was into _Busty Asian Beauties,_ and Castiel still isn’t entirely sure if that was a joke or not. Thankfully, he doesn’t come across anything of the sort. The most scandalous thing that he finds is an album of family photographs, which he decides against opening.

As they unpack, Sam and Dean ask Castiel questions about the neighbourhood, the building, himself. He tells them the best place to go for a burger, where they can find the cheapest drinks, where to avoid eating if they don’t want food poisoning. Somewhere between helping Dean put together the entertainment unit and Sam ordering pizza, Castiel learns that they’re from Kansas, and that they’ve moved here because Sam got accepted to university and Dean got a job in a garage. He also learns that Dean likes pepperoni on his pizza, but Sam is a fan of ham and pineapple.

He doesn’t leave the Winchester brothers until the sun has already set, and when he gets home to find his abandoned coffee and his screensaver blinking at him accusatorially, he feels a momentary pang of regret. He has a deadline to meet and he’s just wasted an entire day that could have been spent writing.

Solemnly, Castiel promises himself that he’ll get back to work in the morning.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t see either of the Winchesters for the next few days, unless Dean’s frequent appearances in his wet dreams count. He spends Thursday through Monday huddled at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard and eyes trained resolutely on his laptop screen, determined to iron out the problems in his story before his deadline. It’s slow going, but by Monday evening, he thinks he’s managed to scrape together something decent. It may not be perfect, but first drafts rarely are. He knows that he’ll get it in the teeth from his editor for each and every mistake, but he’s prepared to accept that. What he’s not prepared to do is spend one more minute staring at this draft.

He celebrates the story’s completion the way he always does, with take-out from the Dragon Palace. As usual, he orders far more food than any one person could eat — his own way of rewarding himself after days spent in a writing haze. The restaurant isn’t far, so usually he would walk down there to collect his food, but since it’s been storming all day, Castiel opts for delivery instead. There’s nothing worse than damp Chinese food. Order placed, he turns on the television and settles into the couch, volume turned down low so that he won’t miss the noise of the buzzer.

Barely ten minutes after calling, he hears the shrill ringing of the buzzer and jumps to his feet, frowning a little as he shuffles towards the door. The Dragon Palace are known for their speedy service, but this seems too good to be true.

“Hello?” he says, pressing his mouth close to the speaker. There’s some crackling, followed by none other than the deep, rasping voice of Dean Winchester.

“Uh, Cas?”

“It’s me,” Castiel says, not bothering to correct him this time. He pauses, wondering why on earth Dean is bothering to ring his buzzer when he has a key that will let him in the front door of the building, and besides that, a brother in the next apartment over. “Forget your apartment number?”

“No,” Dean says quickly, “uh, no, actually. I forgot my keys and Sam’s at school — could you buzz me up, dude? It’s really coming down out here.”

“Hang on.”

Castiel presses the button to admit Dean to the building and then leans against his door, frowning. Less than a minute later, there comes a knock on his front door and he opens it to find Dean, hair plastered to his head with rain, leather jacket shiny and dripping with water. He’s grinning somewhat sheepishly.

“So, I can’t get into my place,” he says. “Uh, if you’re not busy or anything, mind if I hang out here for a little while? Sam’s not gonna be back for at least an hour and there’s not a lot to do out in the hallway…”

Castiel blinks. “Sure,” he says after a moment, stepping aside to let Dean into his apartment.

Dean shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the hook that Castiel gestures to, and then he glances around, gaze considering.For about half a second, Castiel worries about the coffee cups strewn everywhere, the paper spread haphazardly across the desk, and the fact that he’s wearing a pair of old, ragged sweatpants and a t-shirt stained with coffee, but then he shakes it off. Dean’s not here to scrutinise his place, or him, for that matter. He’s just looking for somewhere to pass the time until his brother gets home.

“Nice place,” Dean comments. Castiel shrugs.

“It’s alright. Do you want anything to drink? Coffee, anything like that?”

“Got any beer?”

Castiel gives a silent nod, gestures for Dean to take a seat on the couch and then heads for the kitchen. He grabs two bottles of beer from the fridge, cracking them open with the novelty opener that Anna brought home from her last trip. As he’s heading back to the living room, he hears the sound of the buzzer again, followed by Dean’s voice, sounding uncertain as he answers.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, setting the beers down on the coffee table. “I forgot about the food. Did you buzz them up?”

Dean nods, reaching for a beer and taking a long gulp. “I thought maybe it was a friend,” he says, looking as though he’s trying to seem nonchalant and failing miserably. “… A girlfriend, or something.”

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Not a chance.”

Something flickers across Dean’s face, but Castiel doesn’t have time to elaborate before the knock comes on the door and he has to deal with the delivery guy. It’s a struggle for him to carry all of the bags and boxes by himself, so Dean comes forward, rescuing the shredded chicken before it can fall to the floor. He helps Castiel over to the coffee table, laughing once all of the food is safely set out. It’s easily enough for four people.

“Sure you weren’t expecting someone, Cas?” he says, voice teasing.

“It’s a tradition,” Castiel says defensively. “I finish the first draft of a manuscript, then I eat three times my body weight in Chinese food. What, you don’t have traditions?”

“Relax,” Dean says, grinning, “I’m kidding.”

“I don’t eat it all, anyway,” Castiel says, shrugging. “Usually I make it through a few cartons and then I have to stop. Then I eat the leftovers for the next week.” He starts opening bags and cartons, sliding a plastic fork across the table to Dean. “Have you eaten?”

“Uh—” Dean says, but the rumbling emanating from his stomach gives him away. This time, Castiel does roll his eyes.

“Help yourself. The satay chicken is _excellent._ ”

They eat in companionable silence for a little while, the only noise in the room coming from the television and from their chewing, until finally, Dean clears his throat.

“So,” he says, speaking around a mouthful of egg-fried rice, “you’re a writer?”

“Allegedly,” Castiel replies, fumbling with the lid of a container of cashew chicken. “I have trouble meeting my deadlines.”

“What kind of stuff do you write?”

“Ghost stories. Horror. That kind of stuff.”

Dean nods, swallowing. “Like Stephen King.”

Castiel snorts. “Hardly,” he says. “No, I’m — no.”

There’s the briefest of awkward pauses and then Dean shrugs, leaning forward to grab another container of rice. “When Sammy was a kid, I made up stories for him,” he says. “Used to write them down, too, but we lost them one of the times that we moved.”

“You’ve moved a lot,” Castiel says. It’s not a question. During the day that he spent with Sam and Dean, they talked about living all over the country. For Castiel, who still lives in the city where he was born, the thought is surreal.

Dean shrugs again. “Yeah,” he says indifferently. “After our mom died, our dad got moved around a lot for work, so we had to go wherever the job took him. Sucked for Sam.”

“Not for you, too?”

“I was older,” Dean says. “I understood what was happening, he didn’t.”

Castiel takes a moment to study Dean. “You and Sam are really close.”

The amazement in his voice is clear, and when Dean looks up, the expression on his face says that he can’t understand why Castiel is so surprised.

“Well, yeah,” he says. “We’re brothers.”

Castiel smiles. “My brothers and I aren’t close.”

By then, it’s time to crack open another bottle of beer, and Castiel somehow finds himself telling Dean about his family. His parents, religious beyond reason, naming their children after angels and biblical legends. Lucifer and Michael, his eldest brothers; twins who couldn’t be more different, who spent most of their time arguing and threatening to cut off all contact with one another. Gabriel, the middle child, reckless and rebellious, with perhaps too much fondness for pranks and tricks. Anna, the only girl, dreamy and unfocused, preferring to travel the world than stick around her dysfunctional, unpredictable family. She’s the one that Castiel is closest to, but she’s never here, so what’s that worth, really?

When he’s finished, Dean lets out a low whistle.

“There’s a lot of you,” he says.

 _Too many_ , Castiel thinks dryly, but all he says is “Yes.”

Dean looks like he’s about to say something else, but he’s pre-emptively interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He shoots Castiel an apologetic look and worms the phone out of his jeans pocket, bringing it up and balancing it between his shoulder and his neck as he takes another swig of beer.

“Sammy?”

Castiel continues to nibble at the edges of his cashew chicken and looks pointedly at the television while Dean talks to his brother, not wanting it to seem as though he’s eavesdropping. As he watches the screen flicker in front of him, he reflects on the strange turn that his evening has taken. He expected to spend it alone, watching reruns of _The Simpsons_ and digging into his mountain of Chinese food — yet somehow, he’s sitting on the couch with Dean, trading stories about their families and their childhoods. It’s surreal, but it’s nice, in its own way.

He’s slurping down some udon noodles when Dean hangs up the phone with a sigh. Castiel looks over, swallowing his noodles.

“Something wrong?” he asks. Dean shakes his head, but he brings up a hand to drag through his hair, and Castiel can’t help but notice that he looks a little pissed off.

“Sam’s met a girl,” Dean says shortly. “He’s staying at her place tonight, so I’m locked out. Fuck.”

Castiel makes the offer before he knows what he’s doing. “You can stay here.”

Instantly he wants to take it back. He and Dean may have had a good time together tonight, but they’re still strangers, and worse still, Dean is a stranger that Castiel has an undeniable crush on. Inviting him to stay over is weird — and if, God forbid, Dean were ever to find out about the way Castiel’s been thinking about him in the dark of night, it would become downright creepy. But it’s too late to revoke the offer. The relief on Dean’s face is obvious, and it dawns on Castiel that if he hadn’t offered, Dean would probably have had to rent a motel room tonight.

“You sure, dude?” Dean says, and Castiel nods, heart thudding.

“Yeah, why not? I’ve got a spare bedroom. And there’s gonna be tons of leftover Chinese food for breakfast in the morning.”

Dean’s eyes practically light up.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says gratefully, and the smile that he shoots him makes Castiel’s heartstrings twang. Dean holds up his beer bottle, empty now, and gets to his feet. “You want another?”

As he heads for the kitchen, Castiel finds his eyes wandering to Dean’s backside and swallows hard, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into.

* * *

The next morning, Castiel wakes with a dry mouth, a thumping headache, and a fogginess in place of his memories from the night before. With a low groan, he drags a hand up to his forehead, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple in a futile effort to stop the pounding. Slowly, he opens his eyes, squinting at the bright light that assails them. Deciding that keeping them closed for the moment is the best option, he wonders what exactly happened last night to leave him in this sorry state.

He recalls inviting Dean Winchester to spend the night; remembers the bottles of beer piling up on the coffee table, followed by the appearance of a half-empty bottle of Russian vodka gifted to him by Gabriel last Christmas. After that, things grow fuzzy. Castiel remembers laughing a lot at Dean’s jokes, though in the light of day, he can’t remember what any of those jokes were. Probably for the best, he decides. Their humour would undoubtedly be lessened without the influence of alcohol.

As he’s struggling to remember the events of the night before, Castiel hears a soft sigh beside him, and his entire body freezes up. No longer caring about the harshness of the morning light, his eyes snap open and he looks to the side, biting down hard on his lip to prevent a gasp escaping when he recognises the person lying beside him.

 _Dean_. Dean Winchester, in Castiel’s bed, stubble longer than usual, eyes firmly shut, hair ruffled from sleep. Castiel’s gaze roves over his face and down to his neck, his chest, which is peeking out from beneath the covers, showing the fine sheen of hair on it and the definition of Dean’s muscles. Castiel swallows. Dean is in his bed, possibly naked, but definitely shirtless, and _Castiel doesn’t know what to do._

Alarm bells are ringing in his head and every fibre of his being is screaming at him to move, but for the moment, he stays where he is, lying perfectly still in the hopes that Dean won’t wake up. Why is he here? Why is he curled up on the left side of Castiel’s double bed, looking peaceful and unacceptably attractive for someone who hasn’t even woken up yet? Why isn’t he in the spare room, with its perfectly acceptable single bed and its complete absence of Castiel?

Desperately, Castiel tries to remember the rest of the night. They’d emptied the fridge of beer and then moved onto the vodka, mixing it with a flat bottle of soda and then drinking it straight when the soda ran out. It was late when they’d finally decided to go to bed, he remembers. In his drunken haze, Castiel hadn’t bothered to point Dean in the direction of the spare room. He’d simply stumbled towards his own room and the warm, inviting bed that was waiting for him there — and Dean, apparently, had followed. Castiel’s not sure how the clothes came off, but now that his eyes have adjusted to the light, he can see his sweatpants and t-shirt discarded on the floor, and Dean’s shirt and jeans are crumpled in a pile by the door. From this distance, he can’t tell if there are boxers included in the pile. He takes a moment to thank God for the fact that he’s still wearing underwear, and adds a short prayer that Dean is, too.

Beside him, Dean lets out another sigh, and to Castiel’s horror, he curls his body towards his. Suddenly, Dean’s leg is draped over his, warm and heavy, and his arm is snaking across Castiel’s stomach to grasp at his hip. Castiel can feel Dean’s breath ghosting across his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to tell himself that there’s _not_ a very attractive guy draped across him right now, but it’s no use. His body is reacting as it always does to this kind of situation, and now more than ever, Castiel needs Dean to stay asleep so that he doesn’t notice the very obvious tent in Castiel’s boxers.

Castiel knows that it’s only a matter of time until Dean wakes up, and he knows that if they’re still in this position when he does, Dean is going to be mortified — so, slowly, carefully, he starts to ease himself out of Dean’s grasp. It’s not easy; Dean makes a noise of annoyance when he tries to move away, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hip, but Castiel is determined. Finally, he manages to extricate himself from Dean’s grasp and slips out of the bed, and then he quietly pads out of the room and heads for the bathroom to take care of his problem. He feels like a teenager.

He turns on the shower to drown out any noise, just in case Dean happens to wake, and then he leans back against the tiles and grasps his length, letting his eyes fall shut. As has been the case since the Winchesters moved in, Dean is the feature in Castiel’s fantasy as he strokes himself, though it’s a new version this time — sleep ruffled and clingy instead of awake and smirking. Castiel comes with Dean’s name on his lips, and he only has the chance to feel slightly ashamed before he hears a knock on the door.

“Cas?”

“Just a minute,” Castiel says, surprised at how composed he sounds. He turns off the shower and wraps himself in a towel, taking a deep breath before he cracks open the door and comes face to face with Dean, dressed in his clothes from the day before. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Dean says, grinning that familiar, wolfish smile. “Listen, Sam’s home, so I think I’m gonna head out.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, feeling relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Yeah, alright.”

“Thanks for last night,” Dean says. “You really helped me out.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, really, thanks, man. Without you I would’ve been screwed. I owe you, big time.”

He shoots Castiel another one of those smiles and then he’s gone, shutting the front door behind him with a click. Castiel heaves a sigh and leans against the doorframe, trying to calm his thudding heart.

* * *

Friday night, Castiel’s poring over the version of his manuscript that Crowley sent back, marred here and there with red pen and Crowley’s distinctive brand of “constructive” criticism.

 _USELESS,_ reads one note. _DRIVEL_ , reads another. A particularly lengthy criticism of his opening paragraph ends with a hastily scrawled, _WHY DID I EVER THINK YOU HAD TALENT, NOVAK?_

Castiel sighs and rubs his temples, resigning himself to a night of trawling through Crowley’s edits. He’s about a quarter through the manuscript and beginning to grudgingly accept that while Crowley’s comments are scathing, his points aren’t exactly wrong, when there comes a knock on the door. Frowning, Castiel abandons the desk to answer it. He’s surprised to find Dean standing outside, holding a case of beer.

He’s also more than a little embarrassed, considering that the last time they saw each other, Castiel had just finished jerking off to thoughts of Dean. Not to mention the fact that he’s done so several times since.

Still, he manages to retain his composure enough to utter a questioning “Dean?”

Dean holds up the case of beer. “I owe you,” he says simply, shouldering his way into the apartment. “You’re not busy, are you? Sam’s at a football game and I was bored, so I figured I’d come over and pay you back for all of that beer that I drank the other night.” His eyes alight on Castiel’s desk, the papers strewn across it, the editing file open on his laptop. “Unless you _are_ busy—”

“No,” Castiel says quickly, maybe too quickly. He needs to edit — God knows, he needs to edit — but another night of drinking with Dean sounds vastly preferable to a night spent trawling through Crowley’s bitchy remarks in search of something constructive, and besides, it’s Friday. Even Crowley couldn’t insist that he spend the entire night working.

Dean grins. “Great. Bottle opener?”

Castiel points him towards the kitchen and when he returns, he’s carrying two freshly opened bottles, dripping with condensation. He hands one to Castiel and keeps one for himself.

“I ordered pizza,” he informs Castiel, settling onto the couch as if he does this all the time. “I figured you’d say yes.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You figured I’d be home alone on a Friday night?”

“Hey, you’re the one who said you’ve got no chance with women,” Dean says with a lazy grin, stretching his arms across the back of the couch.

“I said no such thing!” Castiel objects, though he knows exactly what Dean is referring to. “It was the suggestion of me having a girlfriend that I was talking about. Women just…” he trails off, shrugging. “They like me. I don’t like them.” He meets Dean’s eyes, challenging. “Is that a problem?”

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug. “None of my business who you want to bone, dude,” he says, raising his bottle to his lips. “Besides, I kind of figured.”

Something flashes across his face, but Castiel’s not quite sure what it is. Not revulsion, anyway. And that, Castiel’s surprised to discover, is that. Dean doesn’t offer up any revelations about his own sexuality, but he doesn’t change his behaviour towards Castiel — he doesn’t shift away to put any distance between them, his tone hasn’t altered when he speaks again. If anything, it seems like he shifts closer to him on the couch, though Castiel knows that that’s just wishful thinking.

The pizza arrives and they put on a cheesy movie, some ancient story about aliens and humans who are too stupid to know how to defend themselves. Like the other night, the beer bottles pile up on the coffee table, Castiel feeling himself growing less inhibited with each drained bottle. Dean makes some stupid joke about the characters on the screen and Castiel’s stomach pools with warmth, affection, and for the first time he realises that he might be entering dangerous territory.

It’s one thing to find Dean Winchester attractive, but it’s quite another to develop feelings for him. Castiel can handle being attracted to his neighbour; that can be dealt with, in the privacy of his bedroom when all of the lights are off, or in the shower in the morning before he prepares to face the day. Lust is something that Castiel can _handle_. But feelings? Feelings are something else entirely. He’s not sure if he can handle the burst of affection in his chest when Dean sends a smile his way, or the fluttering in his stomach when Dean calls him “Cas” in that deep, rasping voice.

Dean hasn’t given any indication that he’s anything other than straight. From where Castiel is standing right now, there’s no good that can come of him developing feelings for Dean Winchester. He’s never wanted to be the kind of guy who falls for a straight guy.

“So,” he says suddenly, needing to fill the silence with words so that he doesn’t have to focus on his traitorous thoughts. “No Sam tonight?”

“I told you, he’s at a football game,” Dean says, tearing off another slice of pizza. He grins, giving Castiel a sidelong glance. “He’s on a date, actually. With that girl I told you about the other night. Her name’s Jess.”

He says it like it’s some kind of joke. Castiel frowns.

“Why is that funny?”

“I dunno,” Dean says, wrinkling his nose, “it’s just it’s my little brother, you know? Sam doesn’t do the dating thing.”

“Isn’t he twenty-one?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits, “but he just… doesn’t date. Maybe it’s all the moving around, but Sam’s never really had a girlfriend before.”

“And what about you?” Castiel says before he can stop himself.

“Me?” Dean smirks. “I’ve been around.”

“Relationships?” Castiel presses, but Dean just laughs.

“Like I said, we moved around a lot.”

Castiel doesn’t ask the question that he really wants to ask — _have you only been with women?_ — and he doesn’t fight it when Dean changes the subject. Still, he can’t help but feel hopeful at the fact that Dean never specified that it was women he’d been with. The hope is fleeting. After a moment, it’s replaced with disgust at himself for even daring to think that there might be a potential chance of Dean being interested in him.

Unlike the last time Dean came over, he doesn’t stay. They finish the pizza and the case of beer, talk through another terrible movie, and when it’s coming up to a quarter to one in the morning, Dean reluctantly announces that he’d better get home. Castiel waves him off at the door, hating the way that his heart picks up pace when Dean lingers in the doorway and says “Goodnight, Cas.”

Feelings. Castiel doesn’t want to deal with feelings. With a sigh, he locks the front door and heads to bed, already knowing that he’s going to fall asleep with the image of Dean’s face burned into the back of his eyelids.

* * *

It becomes a sort of unspoken agreement that whenever Sam is busy, Dean will show up on Castiel’s doorstep. After the fourth or fifth time, Castiel stops being surprised to open the door and find Dean waiting there, usually with beer or snacks or some kind of offering to explain his presence there. He starts to expect it, because as the school year goes on, Sam falls into a routine, and as a result, so do Dean and Castiel.

Castiel starts to plan his writing around Dean’s visits. Wednesdays are no longer reserved for writing, because Sam has a standing date with Jess on Wednesday nights. Saturday afternoons are out too, because that’s when Sam has basketball practice and Dean comes over to play video games. Crowley’s not pleased with the fact that Castiel’s already low productivity has decreased since the Winchesters moved in, but Castiel can’t bring himself to care. By now, he’s in too deep.

He’s rapidly falling in love with Dean Winchester, and everything else is starting to seem unimportant in comparison. Still, he’s trying to maintain at least some semblance of normality, so he designates Saturday mornings as his editing time.

One one such Saturday morning, he’s making some half-hearted edits to the second draft of his manuscript when he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Door’s open,” he calls absent-mindedly over his shoulder, expecting Dean. It’s not until he hears the soft throat clear behind him that he remembers it’s too early for Dean to be here. Swallowing, Castiel closes the lid of his laptop and turns. “… Anna.”

“Castiel,” his sister says.

It’s been months since he last saw her, and she looks different. Her dark red hair, shoulder-length the last time he saw her, is longer now, worn in loose curls around her face. She’s dressed in a business casual sort of style, in a dark grey skirt, pale blue blouse and smart high heels, which can only mean one thing. Anna’s personal style is relaxed and informal; she only dresses like this when she visits their parents.

“You look nice,” he says, a lame attempt, and he earns a raised brow in response.

“Liar,” Anna retorts. “I look like one of the Novak robots. Coffee?”

“Kitchen.” Castiel points her in the right direction and then heads for the couch, bringing his own half-full cup with him. Anna returns a few minutes later, steaming cup clutched in her hands, and settles onto the couch beside him with a sigh. “So,” Castiel says. “How _were_ the Novak robots?”

With another heaving sigh, Anna fills him in on how his family is doing. By the time she’s finished, Castiel’s cup is empty.

“… So,” Anna finishes, “long story short, Lucifer and Michael are no longer speaking, Gabriel’s banned from ever helping with the cooking again, and Mom and Dad have finally decided that they went wrong with you when they allowed us to share a room when we were toddlers.” She smiles at him, weary. “All in all, pretty par for the course.”

Castiel snorts. “Just another beautiful day in the Novak household,” he says, wondering if Anna can hear the bitterness in his voice. “Good to know that they’ve found the root of my sinful homosexuality, though. Sharing a room with my sister? Who knew that was what turned me gay?”

“At last, they’ve solved the mystery,” Anna quips, but her face is serious. “Um. So, I didn’t come here just to give you the latest on our crazy family.”

“Oh?”

Anna shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “I need a place to stay,” she admits. “Just for a little while. I’m saving to go backpacking in Europe, but the rent at my place is making it impossible. I was going to stay with Mom and Dad, but—”

“They’re insane,” Castiel finishes for her.

“Exactly. It wouldn’t be for long,” she says, looking hopeful. “A couple of months, max. And I’ll kick in for some of the bills, I’m not just gonna mooch off you or anything like that.”

Castiel considers for a moment. “Yeah, alright,” he says at last. “You can have the spare room. It’ll be fun.”

Anna grins, launching forward to throw her arms around him in a hug. “ _Thank_ you, Castiel!”

He’s patting her back and chuckling when he hears the door knock again, and this time, it _must_ be Dean. Anna pulls out of his arms, looking at him questioningly.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asks. “I thought you were a lonely old writer-hermit. Holed up in your writer cave with your coffee and your typewriter.”

“I use a laptop,” Castiel retorts, swatting at her as he gets to his feet. “It’s just a friend, hang on.”

Dean is standing outside with a video game box clutched in one hand and a bag of cheese puffs in the other. He’s grinning, but it slips ever so slightly when he steps into the apartment and spots Anna sitting on the couch. It’s only momentary, though — the grin returns, though now it’s more of a hollow smirk.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Cas,” Dean says. “I thought you weren’t into chicks?”

Castiel squawks indignantly. “That’s my _sister_ ,” he says.

“I’m his _sister_ ,” Anna says at the same time, and Dean chuckles.

“Nice to meet you, sister Cas,” he says, giving an oddly formal bow. The hollowness in his smirk is gone. “I’m Dean.”

“Anna,” Castiel corrects him. “Her name is Anna.”

“Right,” Dean says, “Anna.” He looks at Castiel, brows raised. “Uh, am I interrupting something? I thought we had plans, but I can go, if you’re busy.”

Castiel’s stomach flutters at the confirmation that Dean thinks of their routine as a routine, too — neither of them had actually agreed to hang out today, but they’d both assumed that they would. It was unspoken. Expected. Swallowing, Castiel looks at Anna imploringly, waiting for her to get the message.

Thankfully, she does.

“Nah, he’s not busy,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’ve got stuff to do, bags to pack. I’ll see you tomorrow, _Cas_.” The inflection on the nickname is hard to miss, and Castiel resists the urge to flip her the bird as she exits the apartment, pausing to mutter in his ear, “Just a _friend_? Right.”

“So that’s your sister,” Dean says conversationally. “She’s cute.”

Castiel’s heart sinks a little, because if Dean wants him to set him up with Anna, he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to handle it. “Yeah,” he says cautiously, earning a grin from Dean in response.

“Must run in the family,” Dean says, and then he winks.

 _Winks_. Castiel frowns.

“Um,” he says, finding himself momentarily lost for words. Then he shakes his head, forcing himself out of the daze. Dean is a flirt, a joker. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Castiel clears his throat. “So, what are we playing today?”

* * *

 

It’s been about eight years since Castiel moved out of the family home, and he’s forgotten what it’s like to live with a sibling.

Having Anna stay at his place has turned out to be its own unique brand of irritating. In the past few years, Castiel’s grown used to his own routine. He likes being able to stay up until all hours of the morning if he wants to, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop and eyes trained on the screen. He likes being able to be in control of his own diet, even if that usually amounts to subsisting on coffee and junk food. He likes being able to come and go as he pleases, with no one to question him about what he’s been up to. Hermit jokes aside, Castiel _likes_ his solitude.

With Anna there, though, he finds that it’s not so easy to do the things he likes to do. She tuts at him when she leaves her room to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and finds him writing; she empties the cupboard of potato chips and cookies and replaces them with granola and rice cakes; when he gets home, she’s always there to ask where he’s been and what kind of day he’s had. He feels a little guilty for finding her concern irritating, but he’s an adult, damn it, and his little sister shouldn’t be trying to dictate his choices, even minor ones, like what kind of midday snack he wants to eat.

Anna is wonderful, but two weeks into her stay, her presence is growing stifling. Castiel needs to get away.

On a Thursday night, he finds himself standing outside apartment 3C instead of his own, carrying a case of beer in one hand and the menu for the Dragon Palace in the other, just in case Sam and Dean haven’t gotten the myriad of leaflets that get deposited in the mail boxes downstairs every day. He’s trying to gather the courage to knock, but he’s worried that his showing up without calling or texting is an inconvenience. Silly; Dean shows up at his place unannounced all the time. But Castiel finds himself wondering if the Winchesters have some sort of Thursday night ritual that he doesn’t know about. Maybe they have family dinner. Maybe Dean works late. Maybe neither of them are home.

He shakes his head and raises his fist to knock on the door before he can psych himself out any more. There’s the sound of someone shuffling around in the apartment and then the door opens to reveal Sam, dressed casually in a pair of sweatpants and a maroon hoodie with the name of his university printed across the chest. He has one pen tucked behind his ear, another clamped between his teeth, and there’s a sheaf of papers falling out of his arms onto the carpet below. The scent of cooking wafts into the hallway and for a moment, Castiel is afraid that he’s interrupted Sam and his girlfriend on date night.

“Cas?” Sam says, the pen in his mouth falling. He tries to catch it and fails, sending the rest of his papers scattering in the process. “Ah, shit. Uh.” He stoops to pick up his things and then looks back up at Castiel, hair falling in his eyes. “Hi, Cas. What are you doing here?”

Castiel opens his mouth to say he’s sorry for barging in on Sam’s date, but then Dean’s voice calls out from the kitchen, and Castiel almost sags with relief.

“Sammy? Who is it?”

“It’s Cas,” Sam calls back. He’s finally gotten his papers in order; he straightens up and steps to the side, gesturing for Castiel to come in. “He brought beer.”

Dean appears in the kitchen doorway, and Castiel hates the way that his heart leaps, but it does, because Dean looks so domestic and welcoming that he just can’t help it. He’s holding a pot and stirring vigorously with a wooden spoon, but more importantly, he’s wearing a baby blue apron with KISS THE COOK emblazoned on it in sprawling cursive. Castiel’s lips are dry. He’d follow the instructions on the apron, if Dean would let him.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, smile as warm as ever. “Something up?”

“My sister,” Castiel says by way of explanation. “She’s starting to get a little…” He trails off, not wanting to badmouth Anna, but Dean laughs. He’s a big brother; as much as he loves Sam, he understands.

“You want dinner?” he asks, raising the pot a little. “It’s spaghetti.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Castiel says doubtfully. It smells delicious, but Dean doesn’t come across as the type of guy who knows how to cook. Castiel wants to get away from Anna tonight, but he doesn’t think he’s willing to risk food poisoning to do it.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, looking offended, and comes forward to raise the spoon to Castiel’s lips. “Taste it,” he orders. Castiel does, even if it does feel weirdly intimate to let Dean feed him like this.

It’s _incredible._ His surprise must show on his face, because Sam, just back from fetching the bottle opener, laughs. “Don’t be too impressed, Cas,” he says teasingly, reaching for the case of beer in Castiel’s hands. “Spaghetti is the only thing that Dean can cook.”

Dean mutters something offensive and then retreats to the kitchen to finish cooking, leaving Castiel alone with Sam. He’s opened a beer for each of them, but for the moment, his is untouched as he finishes poring over whatever college work it is that’s occupying his attention. Castiel takes a sip of his own beer and then looks around the living room. It’s the first time he’s been in the Winchesters’ apartment since he helped them move in, and it looks mostly the same, apart from the walls. Dean and Sam have decorated with framed posters for classic rock bands, a decision that Castiel thinks was probably Dean’s. There are books everywhere now, too, novels and textbooks alike. Castiel’s gaze alights on one in particular; a slim, black volume, with the title printed on the spine in silver lettering. _Underwater._ And then, in smaller print: _Castiel Novak._

Castiel’s cheeks flame.

“Why do you have that?” he asks. Sam looks up, seeming confused, until he sees the book that Castiel is staring at so fixedly.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, suddenly sounding excited. “Well, when you said that you were a writer, I was curious. I went out and bought it a couple of weeks back — it’s great, Cas, really.”

“It’s awful,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “That was the first story I ever published. Killer mermaids? Come on, it’s embarrassing. I don’t even keep it on _my_ bookshelf anymore.”

“No, man, seriously,” Sam insists. “I loved it. Dean did too, and he’s not that big of a reader.”

He’s saying something else, but Castiel doesn’t hear him, too horrified at the thought that Dean has read the embarrassment that is his first novella. After a moment, he forcefully changes the subject, unable to bear Sam’s compliments any longer. Sam starts telling some story about Jess instead, but it isn’t much of a distraction. Castiel’s cheeks are still burning with shame when Dean comes in to set the plates on the table.

The spaghetti is delicious — Castiel doesn’t know if Sam’s comments about Dean’s cooking were true or not, but he was definitely right about the spaghetti. It may be the best pasta dish that Castiel has ever tasted.

Over dinner, he sees the same rapport between Sam and Dean that he noticed on the very first day that he met them. Their conversation is easy, rapid-fire. There’s never a lull or an awkward silence; one of them always has something to say. Even so, Castiel doesn’t feel excluded. They know just how to drag him in, make him part of the conversation, even if they’re talking about something he knows nothing about, like Dean’s mechanic job or Sam’s grade in his econ class.

After dinner, Sam announces that he’s going to go to his bedroom to finish studying, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the living room. Some kind of look passes between the brothers as Sam heads to bed, but Castiel’s not quite sure what they’re trying to communicate to each other, so he concentrates on getting the dishes cleaned up instead. Dishwasher loaded, Castiel straightens up and turns, starting when he comes face to face with Dean.

“Sorry,” Dean says with a low chuckle, seeming amused by Castiel’s jumpiness. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You want another beer?”

They end up on the couch with their drinks, a Western playing on the TV in the background. They’re not paying much attention to it, though it seems that they never do, when they watch a movie together. Usually, they talk about Dean, but tonight, Castiel talks about Anna. Dean is a good listener; he nods in all the right places, agrees with Castiel when that’s what he needs, tells him when his complaining goes a little too far.

Though there are times when Castiel thinks that maybe Dean’s not listening; are those Dean’s eyes, lingering on Castiel’s lips just a beat too long? Is Dean hearing his words, or is he too caught up in watching his mouth form them?

Then Castiel catches himself, because that’s his imagination. It’s wishful thinking, that’s all.

Isn’t it?

He’s tipsy now, veering on the edge of drunk, and Dean is too. They’ve somehow moved closer to each other on the couch, so close that their legs are brushing each other’s, and Castiel can smell the beer on Dean’s breath and the scent of his cologne. He knows that he’s heading into dangerous territory and that he should leave, but he doesn’t want to. Words are still pouring out of his mouth, passionate and surprisingly coherent, considering how much he’s had to drink, and when his eyes flicker to that hateful black book on the coffee table again, he has to say something.

“You read my book,” he says, and Dean blinks at him, confused. “My _book_ ,” Castiel repeats. “Killer mermaids. _Underwater_. That one.”

Dean’s eyes light up suddenly, understanding. “Yeah! Yeah, it was great, Cas. I liked it.”

“Bullshit,” Castiel declares, and Dean blinks again, the confusion returning. “It’s drivel, Dean. Terrible. Should never have been published.”

“No,” Dean protests, “no, no, it was really good! The ending — I didn’t see it coming, it was _good_ , Cas.”

“You’re sweet,” Castiel says, and he’s _definitely_ in dangerous territory now.

His mouth is inches from Dean’s. They’re so close that all it would take is for Castiel to lean forward, just a little, a fraction of a fraction of a movement. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, closing his eyes. He should leave. He should go home.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice even raspier than usual. When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds himself staring into Dean’s own ones. They’re impossibly green. Castiel’s a writer, he should be able to come up with countless metaphors to describe them, but all he can think is that you could get lost in eyes that green.

It’s Dean who finally does it, leans forward and closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Castiel’s with an endearing hesitation that doesn’t fit his cocky, flirtatious self at all. For a moment, Castiel is stock-still, hardly daring to reciprocate in case he scares Dean away. But Dean’s lips remain on his, warm and chapped and insistent, demanding a reaction. Castiel’s brain seems to have shut down, a constant thought loop insisting that this can’t be real, but luckily, his instincts take over; he starts kissing back, reaching up a hand to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean kisses the way he speaks — brash, confident, self-assured. There’s no denying who’s in control here. It’s Dean who coaxes Castiel’s lips apart with his tongue, Dean who presses Castiel back against the couch cushions, Dean who nudges Castiel’s legs open with his knee and then settles on top of him, impossibly warm and soft but _hard_ , where it counts. His hands are on Castiel’s face, holding him just the way he wants him, and his touch is electric.

Castiel is in heaven. He never wants this to end.

Except.

Except Dean, as far as Castiel knows, is straight. And Castiel made a promise to himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t get involved with a straight guy. And even if this is Dean Winchester, even if he wants to keep going and forget deal-breaking questions of sexuality, that’s a promise that Castiel has no intention of breaking.

It takes everything he has to do it, but finally, Castiel manages to wrench himself from Dean’s grip, pressing his palm flat against Dean’s chest and holding him at arm’s length when he tries to kiss him again.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, wait. Dean, _wait_.”

Dean frowns down at him, hair tousled beyond belief, lips kiss-bruised, eyes heavy-lidded with want. “What is it?”

“You… you’re straight,” Castiel says lamely. Dean stares.

“When did I ever say that I was straight?”

“You never said that you _weren’t._ ”

There’s a beat of silence and then Dean laughs, his head lolling down to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. “Oh, Cas,” Dean says, his entire body shaking with laughter. “Damn, it’s a good thing you’re cute, because you may be the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

“Why?” Castiel exclaims, indignant.

“I’ve been practically stalking you for weeks,” Dean says, still grinning. “Come on, Cas, you seriously haven’t noticed all of the signals I’ve been sending you?”

“Signals?”

“Showing up at your place all the time. Sitting right next to you even though you’ve got tons of chairs in your apartment — way too many for someone who lives alone, by the way. You didn’t notice any of that?” At the sight of Castiel’s blank expression, he chuckles again. “No, I guess not. I figured when you didn’t make a move. I tried being more obvious. I called you cute when I met your sister.”

“I thought you were just being you,” Castiel says, confused. “You know. You’re a flirt. It doesn’t actually _mean_ anything.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “No?” he says, and then he leans in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to Castiel’s neck. “Okay… so, signals don’t work with you. I get that now.” He bites down gently on the hollow of Castiel’s throat and then sucks at the mark there. Castiel sucks in a breath. He can feel Dean’s grin against his skin. “Let me be more clear, then…” Another kiss, another nip. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for weeks.” He looks up at Castiel from beneath his lashes. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Castiel bites his lip. “Clear,” he says, though he can still hardly believe it, and then Dean’s lips are on his again, warm, soft, wonderful.

* * *

Dean’s bedroom is messy, the floor littered with a mess of clothes, dark band tees and plaid shirts and one or two almost identical leather jackets that Castiel has to squint at, because he’s sure he saw at least three leather jackets hanging on the hook by the front door. He doesn’t have long to wonder at Dean’s seemingly never-ending supply of leather outerwear, however, because Dean is behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, mouth on the back of his neck.

They’d been making out on the couch for what seemed like forever until Dean grunted out Sam’s name, and Castiel had reared up, horrified, thinking that Dean had some weird incest fetish — until Dean had laughed another one of those breathless laughs that he seemed incapable of containing tonight, and told Castiel that he didn’t want his brother to find them naked in the living room in the morning.

Castiel had gotten it then. He’d understood.

So now they’re in Dean’s room, stumbling towards the bed together, neither one of them willing to let go of the other even for a moment so that they can get their bearings. Castiel reaches the bed first; he turns in Dean’s arms so they’re face to face and then lets himself fall onto the mattress, tugging Dean with him as he drops. They fall in a tangle of limbs and laughter, and then there’s more kissing. Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Dean.

He lets out a whimper when Dean pulls away, but it’s not for long — just long enough to rip his t-shirt off and toss it amongst the others on the floor. Catching on, Castiel sheds his shirt as well, and he doesn’t even have a moment to feel self-conscious about how his body looks compared to Dean’s before that wicked, insistent mouth is on his again. Dean’s hands are at his belt buckle, fumbling desperately with the clasp. It’s an old belt; there’s a trick to it. Castiel wraps his hands around Dean’s, stilling his movements, and then works the belt off himself, throwing it to the floor and tilting his hips up so Dean can slide his jeans off. There’s a chill in the room and Castiel can’t help but shiver once he’s down to his boxers, his hardness obvious. Dean pulls away for a moment, green eyes locking onto Castiel’s.

“Okay?” he murmurs, and Castiel nods, because he doesn’t have the words right now to tell Dean that this is _more_ than okay. This is what he’s been fantasising about for weeks.

Dean smiles at him, slow and lazy, and then he strips off his own jeans and tosses them somewhere on the other side of the room. He keeps his eyes locked on Castiel’s while he plays with the waistband of his boxers, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake every time they brush against Castiel’s skin. He’s teasing. It’s agonising.

“Dean,” Castiel says, breathless, and the smile grows wider.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“You’re an asshole,” Castiel bites out. That earns him a laugh, and then, at long last, Dean’s fingers around his cock. He kisses him hard while he strokes, hand rough against Castiel’s skin. Castiel fists his hands in the bedsheets, tilting his head back as Dean’s movements grow faster and faster, and it’s not long before Castiel’s coming. His cheeks flame with embarrassment — he’s like a goddamn teenager — but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, just kisses him through it, smiling against his lips when Castiel tries to murmur an apology.

“It’s okay,” Dean says, rolling off of Castiel to lie on the mattress beside him, but it’s _not_ , because Dean is still hard, still wanting, and that’s not fair. Castiel reaches over and trails his hand down Dean’s chest, stopping just shy of his waistband, and when Dean says his name, it’s husky and full of longing. “Cas?”

He’s probably expecting a hand-job, maybe hoping that Castiel will suck him off, but Castiel has something better in mind.

“Can I ride you?”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, caught off-guard for the first time since Castiel’s known him. “You don’t have to.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “I _want_ to, you idiot.”

Lost for words for once, Dean points him to the bedside table, where he finds a neat stash of lube and condoms. Typical, that the only thing in Dean’s bedroom that’s tidy is the sex drawer. Castiel wastes no time in peeling back the waistband of Dean’s boxers and rolling on the condom, loving the way that Dean jerks under his touch. Normally, he’d take his time getting ready for something like this, but he doesn’t want to wait. It feels like he’s been waiting forever.

He opens himself up, one finger first, then two, then a third, maybe too soon, but he doesn’t care. Taking a deep breath, he swings his legs over Dean’s body so that he’s straddling his hips and then, slowly, carefully, he sinks down. They both let out a sharp gasp and Dean’s hands go to Castiel’s hips, fingers pressing so tightly that he’s sure to leave bruises.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “Fuck, I — are you — is this okay?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says, eyes fluttering closed. It’s painful, more painful than he was expecting — it’s been a while — but beneath the pain there’s pleasure, and he knows that all he has to do is push through until he gets to the good part. Sucking in a breath, he starts to move. Dean’s fingers massage his hips in time to his moans, and slowly, the pain subsides.

This is the good part.

He picks up the pace, stroking himself in time with his movements, breaths turning ragged as his skin moves against Dean’s. Dean’s grasp on his hips grows stronger, and when he comes, he clenches so tight that Castiel thinks he might break. Castiel comes for the second time a beat later, and then he rolls off of Dean, spent. Dean’s breathing heavily as he reaches down to tangle their fingers together. Castiel is surprised — he would’ve pegged Dean for the fuck and leave type, but now he’s tugging Castiel back over to him, drawing him in for a soft, slow kiss and then shifting his body so that Castiel’s head is pillowed on his chest.

“Fuck,” Dean says simply. Castiel laughs.

“I wish I’d picked up on those signals sooner,” he says.

He feels Dean's lips pressing against his forehead and Castiel closes his eyes, heart picking up pace as Dean murmurs into his hair.

“It was worth the wait.”

Castiel couldn't agree more.


End file.
